Shadow Engines
by Viburnum
Summary: Waylon Park didn't intend to meet Miles Upshur. But they did. Waylon and Miles make a team of unexpected llowing Waylon's route, on a trail of both admiration and jealousy, is Eddie d what happens when Project Walrider has more variants who host different types of Walriders? Daryl Stockblitz is one. Will Waylon rewrite the Morphogenic equation? Total WIP
1. Chapter 1

**Full story Summary:** Waylon Park didn't intend to meet Miles Upshur. But they did. Waylon and Miles make a team of unexpected proportions. Along the way, Waylon reminisces about his time in the Murkoff corporation: he remembers how the creepy guy Andrew had a overwhelming sexual fascination for him...and his silent, sort of "secret admirer" was his boss, Jeremy Blaire. Despite even surviving Waylon now has to help Miles who is Walrider-stricken. Wernicke's group of "friends" are the closest possible people to help him. Following them around are The Twins. Who find both Waylon and Miles fun. Following Waylon's route, on a trail of both admiration and jealousy, is Eddie Gluskin. While Waylon and Miles are hopping from different states to different countries what happens when Miles feels his core is soothed by Waylon? And what happens when Project Walrider has more variants who host different types of Walriders? Daryl Stockblitz is one who is sent by Murkoff's sibling company with his Walrider, codenamed "Slicestorm", to capture them. Beginning with torturing Andrew. Will Waylon rewrite the Morphogenic equation in a direction Wernicke did not expect?

Bear with me on this fic. TOTAL WIP

 **WARNING: This story has VERY, VERY GRAPHIC details of rape, non-con sex, violence, strong language and also other bizarre things that is a detailed study of the Outlast characters and the story universe. If any of this may trigger or make you uncomfortable please do not read. This is a very important warning.**

* * *

 **Mountain Air**

Sometimes, he wondered about these people. They seemed dead. In a way goldfish-eyes look when they have hit the subtle edges of glass or contracted an infection.

They talked to him normally. Briefly and succinctly. _En pointe_. Nothing that was detailed. Nothing too abstract. Nothing excess. By the business as they said. Never more.

Waylon Park burned his tongue on the coffee. "Ouch..." partly obfuscated by the stinging extension of his tongue. Coffee felt more alive than the personnel here. That was pretty much a sign of "Waylon get your way out."

"Nice tongue." A fully suited doctor, the sort of scrubs that made you ponder on radiation fallouts, commented making Waylon spin and look at him sceptically and a bit nervous. "Healthy red." The man commented again making Waylon retract his tongue into the soft and hard shells of lips and mouth, questionably, nervously, looking, "Kinda bright with a singe." The man looked at him with a smile, eerie, "I presume you are Waylon Park. The programmer that helps MIR connection to our engine? I am Andrew."

There was no handshake. But Waylon politely replied, "Nice to meet you, I guess." Sufficiently, he added that.

The eyes looked at him. Surveyed his body in a way that felt sexual and not comfortable. "I guess we will see each other seeing you are our main patch up guy." Waylon noticed that Andrew licked his lips and he was pretty much started drinking his hot coffee again to wash that feeling of uneasiness away.

"Well, they will call me when they need me." Waylon answered with passive interest; a shrug.

Andrew smiled creepily again, "The engine is our own prized baby I find it easy to say that they will need you a lot. We will be _closely_ , working together." The stress on the proximity made Waylon almost drop his coffee.

Waylon hadn't thought back to this conversation…until he faced the licking tongue; after Andrew showed a very mocking sense of concern for him. It seemed that Andrew was liking that his incarceration (or rather corporate betrayal and endangerment) allowed him to be so close to Waylon. Waylon groaned out of protest; he wanted to vomit then and there.

This man was so sick…

Sometimes he wondered.

But he didn't know that then. Like he didn't know much about Eddie Gluskin or Miles Upshur. Or even Jeremy Blaire.

That Jeremy Blaire was a "secret admirer" of sorts. In the two weeks he had been there, there was an incident on how all his coffee mugs (two to be exact) had been broken and his stationery strewn about but in the middle of that chaos was — inarguably the weirdest thing — a new mug, expensive actually, with the purple and red stripes on it, and brewed in it was very A grade coffee.

At first, he thought it was that sicko Andrew.

It was kinda weird when he realised it was Jeremy Blaire. Waylon had thought Jeremy had despised him; he somewhat did. But there was also a sense of liking, a bit condescendingly, but a bit sexual. And he didn't know why.

When he had got on top of Waylon, the stab not so deep, but like a warning, Jeremy mouthed: "So tender, fuck, like it at times. Fuck, you are so annoying." Jeremy smiled, "I will let you get out of here if only you let that mouth work a different kind of reveal." That is when Jeremy had kissed him, hard, unapologetic, malicious, tuned into him, using his weight expertly to make him feel as though he wanted to push into him and possess him. Waylon gargled and Jeremy bit his lip, tugging it slightly, as a sort of punishment, "You are not getting out of here Waylon unless you become my little boy-toy. It's kinda inevitable by this point don't you think so?"

But then that black shadow hurled him hard against the wall. Jeremy was knocked cold. Maybe, broke a few bones the right kind of way.

Waylon had got out. That's when he saw…Miles, engulfed by the swarm of nanomachines, The Walrider feeding into him, a perfect host of sorts…Waylon didn't start the car as he saw the figure approach…

Then he saw, that with eyes slightly glowing at a preternatural level Miles came close to his window side: "I 'll let you drive."

"What about the…"

"The swarm may become more settled if I get out of here." Miles talked a bit slowly, "The engine here fuels too much static in a way."

Waylon opened the door. After they got out Waylon saw the swarm shift right into Miles's body and he shrieked as the pressure of the Walrider made more force…the body convulsed…for about ten minutes a quiet pulled through and the car moved and Waylon was silent…scared and…so scared…

"Fuck…" Miles got up making Waylon almost drive off the road, "That was an epic fuck of pain…" Miles vomited blood. It got on Waylon's bare feet a bit. But Waylon breathed heavy; then sighed relieved.

" You are alive."

"I want to keep it that way." Miles said determinedly. "I don't know the odds of this fucking shit thing in me or what is the probability of me dying or wreaking havoc elsewhere. I just know this is something I have to bear. If my life is borne this way so be it; no suicidal desires here."

Waylon nodded, "I don't want to kill you…" It felt ironical, who _could_ or would kill who…after all the death machine was not in Waylon.

A silence followed. Miles was shot but…he seemed to be become a bit more stable… a bit more coherent…"By the way I am Miles."

"Upshur." Waylon looked fast. It took a second for Miles to register then smiled.

"So, my anonymous source and I. Finally together."

"I am so sorry…." Waylon felt like crying, "I fucking didn't know as much…"

"Well, you weren't supposed to." Miles looked a bit concerned, "That was my job. Now I am too deep, up shore without a paddle huh…"

Waylon shed a tear.

"Look water works can take a hike. You need to be resolute." Miles brought out a pack of cigarettes, lit one.

Waylon, by instinct, popped the windows a bit.

The mountain air was cold but not so much. It had hints of some embers. A caress on the hair and face. The air felt natural and untampered with. After being in an asylum that did almost anything to control Waylon loved this autonomous phenomenon that required no megalomaniac interference.

Miles looked peaceful. Smoking. There was an aura surrounding him. His eyes more shades deeper than blue; a dimension of grey and black swept in.

"Wanna listen to some music?" The question was somewhat rhetorical; nonchalant in its delivery.

The word "music" made Waylon remembered Eddie Gluskin's song. It was so haunting and so disturbingly fucked up.

"Anything outrageous. Nothing too soft."

"Wow…" Miles smiled, "So specific."

Miles looked at his iPod and turned on Hotel California.

The tone was appropriate. Classic rock. The theme similar. Ironic but somewhat as inviting as the mountain breeze.

"What are we gonna do now...?"

They were ten tracks in. They had listened to "Anaconda" (Both versions), Mudshovel by Staind, BYOB by System of a Down, Stan by Eminem and the last song on was Pistachio. A soft ballad.

"You will have to give the evidence." Miles laughed, a metallic sort of inhuman ring hung on it, as though the Walrider laughed with him, "This new birthday suit ain't gonna look cleaner even if I take a bath."

Waylon nodded.

"For now, I need to call my —"

"Best not to."

"But my wife is worried."

"You need to understand that we are way in over our heads."

"We can crash in a motel."

"I got some cash…" Miles took out a plastic stash within the false cover of the glove compartment, "That good enough for your motel agenda."

They did crash.

Side by side. Double bed. Miles felt less tired. Figured it was the ever growing curiosity of the bastard Walrider. Waylon just zipped away to the land of sleep. Too tired for a complete dream. Too tired for a nightmare to wake him.

Miles felt calm.

Sleep came in strange intervals.

Inside his head the Walrider asked him some questions. Made some observations.

 _"_ _That one is pretty."_

 _You are talking about the man?_ Miles asked the thing.

 _Yes. Waylon Park. Cute is that the word…?_

 _You know the word "cute" — what else you know?_ Miles was a bit annoyed.

 _"_ _Blood and bone and flesh and heads…different heads…your head nice and good…body strong…"_

At one point, Miles felt an erection.

Before he knew what was happening he saw the Walrider appear…afraid he almost jerked Waylon off the bed but then — he struggled not to scream as he felt his dick brought out and being sucked by the thing…in a half-dream state he felt the nano-creature take his member and suck it. With some viscous fluid for something akin to saliva frothing from his mouth…

 _"_ _Make you feel better, Miles…."_

Miles tried to suppress the grunts and moans. Waylon waking up to see him sucked off by this fuck…couldn't handle that shit. Why the fuck was this creature doing this?

As if, knowingly, it answered: _"Make us on good terms."_

 _You fuck! Nothing like that is gonna—_

 _"_ _Shush…pretty human…strong human…lively human…"_

Miles came hard. The Walrider was pleased. _"Oh, we are so much closer now."_

Miles nearly puked. The feeling was odd. Pleasurable but too intense. Painfully absentminded too. Like he was here and _not_ here.

"Not in your fucking lifecycle you parasite." Miles hoarsely cursed under his breath.

 _"_ _You belong to me now…"_ a strain in his muscles reminded Miles of the shared body, _"I belong to you. Parasites don't belong."_

"You are a very flimsy lover you fucking cocky piece of shit." Miles laughed under his breath, "You forgot Billy so soon?"

 _"_ _Billy, what is left of his physicality methinks, is in me. Served his purpose. Lacks your spine so to speak."_

"Such eloquence in bashing your former host. Who invited a cunt like you to this party I wonder."

A quiet laughed rambled his brain. Walrider secure tight in some streams of consciousness. Bonded with his brain cells. A poltergeist in some ancient thriving hallway. A spectral Frankenstein. A frightening beacon that illuminated human madness. It rode the walls of human decadence and despair and depravity. Hence the name.

"Are you _only_ Billy?" The question was a basis of its own. A morphogen in its own right.

 _"_ _No. I am many tissues of thoughts and actual neural neuroticism and psychopathy. A pathological machine but also nuanced by different personas. But yes, I have predominantly Billy's feelings. It will change. I grow more earnestly than the standard foetus."_ Then almost derogatively, _"I liked Billy's anger. It had been very useful…useful…so useful…but his sadness felt pretty oedipal. His momma was a bitch anyway; why care if she lived or died? I see those kind of human vessels to be pretty annoying."_

"Why _me_?"

 _"_ _Your body….so beautiful…so endurable….so a mix of rage and lights…a poached egg in a petri dish of possibilities."_

Miles noticed that the Walrider shifted between child-like speech and then something more jargon like. It was a shift in a morphological linguistic engine it possessed. From low level consciousness to some form of acute awareness. It was fearful. This Frankenstein with and within him.

Waylon's soft sigh made him look.

Peacefully, yet exhaustedly, the man slept.

 _"_ _See, that is a beautiful one. I heard someone call him; yeah he is the darling."_

" A mathematical darling?" Miles chuckled a bit.

Then he too fell asleep.

* * *

"You know the beauty of us is that we both are alike."

"Fuck you — ARGHHHH!"

A cutting of a finger. Which hand Andrew could not understand.

"Now, Andrew, be nice."

Andrew meekly looked as a dark shadow engulfed the other man's body calmly. "Fuck…please…Daryl was it…please don't…"

"Now doctor…" the platinum blonde with red highlights in his hair spoke, "You wanna see what a successful lateral ascension looks like?"

A Walrider with livid red eyes stabbed Andrew in his right arm making him scream.

"Slicestorm, let's hear him scream." Daryl looked at the bleeding man, "So, what was the name of yours and Jerry's mutual cock-stiff attraction?"

"Way…Waylon Park…" Andrew had puked. The pain was unbearable.

"Ah, Miles's informant…" Daryl smiled, "I read your journal. You have some _real_ hardcore sexual fantasies concerning that guy Waylon." Daryl spat on him, "You fucking ugly shit!"

Then he punched him as his Walrider cooed.

"You really think Waylon and you are in the same league; white collar doctor scum always think on shit like that." Daryl looked pretty livid but then calmed into a colder smile. "Waylon, what was his like….Can I read an observation…?"

Systematically, he brought out a journal with no lines. The handwriting Andrew recognized as his own. "Ah, the journals of Andrew Lanes, I have to admit this may not win a chance in Oprah's book club but some of these passages are pretty interesting." In a tone that mocked careful intonation Daryl read a passage:

"I met today a delicious body named Waylon Park. Now, there was a fine boy. Looks like a timid person. Beautiful eyes that look so nervous and he spilled coffee. Oh how yummy. I love to tie him up and see him cry. Fuck him so hard he forgets anything but the fuck. I have also noticed Jeremy Blaire asking about him. Blaire troubles me because I think we are similar in our interests, singular in our intentions, but not the same. I hate to lose ungracefully to higher brass. Waylon has to be mine. I love how surprised he looked when I checked him out. That innocence about him. Like he doesn't know that he is so sexually attractive. It's a fucking turn on at times. I heard he has a wife and two sons. Funny, I pegged him to be a celibate sort of person. I figure he is a vanilla fucker to his wife. I wanna masturbate him and tell him all about me and him fucking his wife so hard that she can't walk straight. I want to know how Waylon looks like when he is moaning. That fucking tongue though. So cute and pink. I want it around my cock. That cute little face. Yum. I really don't understand how he gets around without getting fucked hard by anyone and anything. I think I saw some of the guards touch their penises instinctively looking at him. What a cute man. I wonder if our resident asshole, that Gluskin fucker would want him, that day I tied Gluskin and slapped his penis. And he cried. That stupid fuck. Crying about rape and shit. Motherfucker. Or shall I say fatherfucker lolz. What a cream. What a stupid excuse of a serial killer. I just want Waylon's cock and ass right now. Fuck, I am jerking off hard right now…"

Daryl them smiled in a way that made Andrew frightened, "You aren't a patient sort of fuck are you?" Daryl laughed, "And this is the first of many entries. Seriously, hear yourself mulling quim."

Suddenly, the red eyed Walrider grabbed Andrew's cock so tight that he felt it was gonna dig its talons right into it making him scream and cry for dear life. All Daryl did was hit him, a slap to be exact: "Oh did someone hit you…" the dialogue was eerily familiar; he had once mouthed the same set of words to a semi-conscious Waylon Park while exposing him to the Morphogenic engine. Andrew had remembered the familiar screams but Waylon's breaths, sighs and screams sounded sweeter. Despite the Hope problem he had a partial erection. Instinctively, nostalgically, he in his state blinded by pain, darted his eyes to Daryl's pants. There was no erection. None visible or half done. Yet, something told him that Daryl was getting his kicks out of this.

And like Blaire this guy was on a different level.

That is when Andrew feels it. Blood. Dripping down his legs and an insurmountable amount of pain. His penis is scratched up and bleeding like a bitch. Andrew starts crying. It is dilapidated in sobs, whimpers and hard breathing. It isn't a yell. But it as bloody as his dick. Though still _attached_ to his body.

"Don't worry." Daryl pats him on his shoulder, Andrew's breath is caught, and it is his wounded right arm, another conciliatory move, condescendingly, sadistically, delivered, "I have no reason to mimic Gluskin. I am an artist not an amateur. Gluskin is too fucked up in the wrong places, no?" Rhetorically placed he continues, " I think we have found our common ground; how exciting." He clasped his hands together in a playful manner, "The more I study you, I see similarities, however poorly, to myself." The he became blank. No smile. Andrew could feel danger whiz by as if a sniper was readying aim, "I hate that you have similar tastes to me but you execute them so fucking poorly." With lightning reflexes Daryl punched him first in the face, making Andrew's face move and hit the wall he was hanging from, suspended by his limbs, and then his gut, making him lose consciousness. "Not to mention…" Daryl punched him again, "You can't take hits even if your life depends on it. Even Hope's Walrider found you too disgusting to eat."

A call on a cell phone. The music was "No strings on me" Pinocchio's edit. Daryl, hands bloodied by Andrew, went and caught the call: "Hello?" then he smiled, "Hi Dad."

"I explicitly told me not to call me that."

Daryl then turned blank but sour, "Wernicke, I shouldn't have rescued your ass. You can take Billy being a puss but not someone closer…?" Then screaming, "I mastered this Walrider first and you know it Dad!" Then breathing hard, "Billy couldn't even get his Walrider out of the close proximity of the engine. The fucker was confined to Mount Massive. The nanomachines also felt a _paranoia_ coupled with _claustrophobia_ …" he stressed it, "That also made them go berserk!"

"Billy wanted to see his own mother. You are not even my _own_ son. Billy made me a puppet-father. The boy came from poverty. Never knew his own father. I treated him as a person. I talked to him. That made me inevitably special to him. Of course, it was not truly my aim to be special to Billy Hope. After all, can't be so close to the subject." Wernicke factuality made Daryl happier than ever. "You know Daryl, you are more than a subject. But I do not always like the means of normal reproduction. To me it's too primordial."

"Well, I love calling you Dad because you look like a dad, Dad." Daryl smiled, even though the smile was not to be seen or felt up-close, Wernicke gave a sigh, a peaceful one, that issued that he felt the warmth of it, the meaning of it. "I know you like it; to an _extent_."

Wernicke approvingly grunted, "Well, true to that I suppose dear boy." Then a bit seriously, "I hope you haven't tortured Mr. Andrew Lanes too much."

"I am keeping him alive." Daryl stated looking at his nails. There was a sign of a manicure done previously and so Daryl looked annoyingly at the blood which prompted him to kick the unconscious body of said Andrew Lanes. Then he grabbed his Walrider's hands to check out his talons and the Walrider, like a dutiful child, presented them henceforth. "You never said I _couldn't_ torture him Dad."

"Mr. Lanes is a vital part of our research team. I am disappointed that he was too, let us shall, _fond_ of some of our patients. After all, I did not say he could administer any other stimulation as such. The patients we picked were already hyper-stimulated. That being said don't make Andrew Lanes look like he has made collective trips around the Morphogenic engine room, okay?"

"Sure, sure Dad." Daryl pushed away Slicestorm's talon-hands a bit roughly, but then caressed his skeletal face allowing the Walrider to coo.

"Miles Upshur is now the host of Walrider XY6." Wernicke informed making both Daryl and his Walrider look attentive. Daryl was a bit surprised.

"Isn't he just a freelance journalist?"

"I am afraid I underestimated the man myself. My calculations were all incorrect. A little newsy couldn't have possibly done all that he did. He had potential. XY6 saw that. It is always such an _annoyance_ when your machine reads people better is it not? I think the Walrider did panic for a while when Billy Hope died or was _close_ to it…But Miles Upshur had made it this far and I think the Walrider knew that he was a better candidate than Billy. More stable. Less angry. XY6 may have gotten tired of sharing Billy's wailing cerebral impulses. After all no one can help him when he made the institution go to rot. If he wanted to visit his mother that badly all he needed was asked me to put her on the phone after a while…oh yeah she died…well, he should have moved on." Wernicke talked as though it was all a classical study, a report, the casualties and injuries just plain static-statistics. Interfering with the channel's actual receptions.

Daryl laughed, "So XY6 has a good host." Then as Daryl stroked his Walrider's face, "XY6 is still pretty rudimentary right? Hasn't had any special qualities? What about Miles? Was it consensual…?" Laughs at the innuendo inappropriately placed.

"No." Wernicke stated, "I sent Miles to destroy Billy hoping such a basic Walrider would soon dissolve and die without a host but it inherited the fear of Billy's mind and it latched itself on to Miles. I have to say XY6 really did impress me. It is the first Walrider to actually transfer itself into another so easily. Without much aggression. I am even surprised that for Miles staying amongst the Mount Massive Asylum's engine was actually problematic rather than an increase in Walrider activity. This is where Miles and Billy, possibly due to age, intelligence and circumstances, are different. Miles has motivation to live whilst Billy had not much except rage."

"Too much rage is not good for Walrider and host." Daryl commented as he stroked the head of Slicestorm, who apparently slightly stabbed one of Andrew's toes, as though it was some leftover food on the plate of a child.

"You must know a lot about Miles Upshur and Waylon Park. Address Andrew as appropriate to the task. I have a place for him in Murkoff, do not torture him too badly."

"Fine, with some pleasure, I will not fully indulge." Daryl sighed as Slicestorm swallowed one of Andrew's toes consequently biting it off and eating it, with Daryl chuckling, then more seriously continuing, "What about Eddie Gluskin and The Twins?"

"Gluskin will be the appropriate little hound to sniff out Park. The Twins' motives are not known. If they interfere; you have my permission to eradicate them."

Daryl grinned, "I thought they were part of the successful batch Dad."

"Too successful. I need good drones, not happy-go-lucky machete wielding individuals who mix hedonistic flare with a sort of religious earnestness. Unless they bend to you, open up to a possibility, don't need them." Wernicke sounded bored but then with interests piqued, "But Waylon Park showed some _different_ readings in the Morphogenic engine. I would very much like him alive."

"Why not use Park's family?"

"I rather keep that as a trump card. Besides, Lisa Park has moved away with the boys. I want to know if Waylon feels the same about her anymore. He is a changed man. Maybe his nobility will not allow him to be close to contact with his own family in person. He would want to shield them from all that he has endured."

Daryl laughed, "Aww, so cute and sweet. I wonder if I slightly prick Waylon's fingertips is he going to bleed red or liquid cotton candy."

Waylon silver-grey eyes looked at the full-length mirror in the motel room. It was a simple frame of wood with some cheap metal; had the colour of light brown and the metal was coloured the same. Surveying his cuts, bruises, trails of pinkish-bluish-greenish daubs. The hair was a mess of greasy darkened chestnut. Lisa had said he the eyes of a wolf but he was like the Australian platypus or a chimera with a sphinx's side because he was a wolf amalgamated with the characteristics of other animals. Fondly, he remembers, this observation was one of the many reasons he had fallen in love with her and married her. Lisa had also said that he pondered math like one pondered poetry. She was also a mathematician by trade and education and passion, like him, though her execution was different. She took math with a bit of a surgeon's zeal. More logically than he.

Waylon looked at his cock. _Still intact_. He gulped. He could still remember Eddie's treatment of him. It was horrendous. He had started crying when he realised that Eddie was hell-bent in _castrating_ him, his darling. It was one of the most horrible moments of his life. _God, bless the guy who attacked him_ …Waylon recollects the man who came and punched Eddie and basically saved his cock. Eddie screaming after the other inmate, "Get back here! Not done dying yet you slut!"

Waylon did not understand Eddie. His need to feminize men he thought were "pretty enough" or covetable enough to suit as "woman." _But I am not at all an effeminate man_ …Waylon was annoyed as he looked as his cock and his appearance, _But then again he did say I was special and_ … Waylon remembered the last order of code he took was to strap in Gluskin and he saw what happened to the guy's face. _That time Gluskin did say I can help him. For some reason, he seemed trustful or rather at ease with me. Makes me nervous._ Waylon shudders.

Eddie Gluskin's psychosis was augmented by the engine; his need to kill women so bad that he made makeshift ones to just kill them. But, why? Why did he hate them so much? Waylon wondered what kind of disgusting "pearl" was the girl that "married dear old Dad." Was it Gluskin's mom? If so, why was his vision of the perfect woman so oedipal and twisted? And…then Waylon remembered the file thrown out the window about Eddie Gluskin…pictures taken by his dad and uncle…so he was molested and maybe even raped…and his mom just watched… _Yuck, God, if he was a pedo fuck his dad he would keep a passive woman like his mom around or maybe Eddie Gluskin thought he did. "Only girl daddy every had" my ass. That monster did stuff to his own son…yuck…_ Waylon shuddered more.

Waylon looked at Miles asleep. The preternatural energy was there but its confluence was slightly altered, at rest. Waylon looked at Miles, his skin was tanner than his. Hair a darker shade of brown, a deeper brunette. Face more chiselled. Annoyed, he thought, _Would Gluskin consider Miles "woman" material too?_ But then the answer came either way. Miles was a bit like Eddie, as in, more explicitly baritone and meaner in appearance. But at the same time Miles too had good bone structure. And had fine skin if not a bit coarser than his. It could pan out either way. _Would Gluskin see Miles as a…rival?_ The thought oddly entered his head because Miles had easily interacted with Waylon. Would that provide jealousy in relation to Miles?

Waylon was too tired. Thinking was getting him exhausted. He decided a quick shower or bath with more sleep was the only programming he should be doing at the moment.


	2. Titbits

**Chapter Summary:** This chapter has Eddie Gluskin and Jeremy Blaire!

* * *

 **Titbits**

The water is cold. But not so much. Waylon can feel a rawness, unkempt flesh crying out as the external stimuli in clashing waves of water makes him feel frigid at some places, a sharp pull in others, making him sigh and moan, perpetually, through the tiled bathroom. The porcelain tub looks clean enough but it smells a bit but he is happy because this is paradise compared to the rotten flesh, boiling flesh, putrid flesh and fresh flesh with all the blood that came from almost every inch and crack of the asylum.

Waylon doesn't know what was worse. The coarse façade of sanitation in the walls before the outbreak of the Walrider. Those so-called neutral pools of grey, white and subtle soft colours that screamed hospitalisation and research. Or the change in décor (sarcastically speaking) when blood, guts, puke, slime and other unknown hazards mucked up the walls. That place is a nightmare in different shades.

The blood and grime and slime was mixing with the water. After ten minutes Waylon just got out and unplugged to let out the tub water and gave a short rinse in the shower. Then put in more water, more of some rough, non-existent bubble foam that smelled hygienic enough and just laid down again. His bones ached like a rocking chair weathered by an old life and by the winds that surrounded said life.

The angry pink felt a mixture of neon with some velvety baby blush on his right side collarbone. A kinky thought accompanied: Would Lisa like to suck it better? Fuck, I am tired, Waylon thought exhaling. The thought of sex — lovemaking to be exact — made him tremble, want, hunger. It was an initiation back to the normal way to deal with sensory overload; a clean yet nicely dynamic way of knowing strength, consolation, convictions without conscience and conscientiousness clashing as the teeth of a cannibal gone wild. At least normal for him. Calm, can be succinct, superfluous, and balanced: all the notes of the organ as the right organs move about.

Outside is a cool breeze. Mountainous, adventurous, cold, yet alluring. The gales were secretive of their intents. They were not so subtle, not so aggressive. This is one of the mystical elements of certain mountain ranges. They could be pretty much effects affected into a prism combination of sounds, winds, emotional and nature rifts. But the mountain range of this particular neighbourhood is a bit stiff, a bit reserved; under that coat of adventurous zeal Waylon deciphers something enigmatic. Something unformed or rather unsure or perhaps a bit too hungry to find things out. Waylon realises this unformed attribute served Murkoff's interests a lot. They liked to be people who had bouts of curiosity akin to spasms that could be described as hysteria. Ironically, asylums are that greyish area where the etymology and epistemology of sanity is always put in quotations.

Shadows outside had their ritualistic dances. Waylon swore he saw some shadows move too fast and fluid for the resilience of leaves and branches but he decided to mouth a "fuck it" — in the asylum his senses was so on overdrive; he preferred this porcelain lounge to be just that. The water was becoming colder. The window above the bath had half-lit curtains of lace and was slightly ajar. Outside some crickets hummed on their lives. It was a night, evening widely awake, peaceful yet windy.

His thoughts still encircled the perimeter of his sex. A bit wide eyed Waylon looked down at his cock. Intact. That word was now so steadfast in his opinions of his cock. The penis looked a bit traumatically tired. After feeling almost all of his genitalia hacked off he realised his dick could deserve a breather. But then stirrings made his penis half-awake. Groggily it seemed to be looking at him, with a question like "are we going?" and the resistance to masturbation waned down.

Waylon slowly touched his dick. Gentle and smooth, with the hands of some sort of potter. Moaning a bit he closed his eyes and imagined the silky skin and eyes of Lisa. Intimacy was necessary. There was no roundabout way to this. He needed to feel love and be loved: ironically, by himself, but doing it proper, with his free radicals made him happy. He caressed his nipples, his navel (he loved tongue to circle it and kiss his abdomen), the side of his arms — all his erogenous centres. He cried out a bit loudly as he slowly but generously pumped his cock.

The thoughts of Lisa suddenly were changed. Waylon saw Miles. Miles had a throat that was so muscular and had good vein accents that he wanted to kiss it. The thought was not dissuaded by him. Though he didn't really care for men that way this little fantasy should just go on. Waylon was too tired and so in dire need of an orgasmic ejaculation.

That is when he felt a mouth. So tired and confused he did not see the person it belonged to. The person sucked a bit amateurishly, a bit too fast, his own hands were still on…opening his eyes made him regret the action…in absolute fear he saw that Walrider clamp on his cock and suck vigorously…Should he scream? What the fuck….what should he do?

Waylon could not suppress his moans of feeling. It wasn't totally pleasurable anymore. This was more automatic now. But then the Walrider mimicked his own actions of caressing nipples, abdomen and all of that. Waylon breathed in. Then cried as he felt the Walrider suck slower now. As though knowing a routine.

As Waylon Park came he saw the Walrider look ecstatic.

Then it touched Waylon's chest a bit seductively but a lot affectionately. "Close to you now too cuteness."

The metallic voice, like foils chalk-like needles scratching, made him look meekly at thing. Too? Waylon registered sleepily. But the Walrider disappeared. Maybe, back to Miles again.

In the other room, Miles head jerked as he realised that some of the Walrider's feelings were now fusing with his — oh fuck! Blowjob of Park! — Miles could see the act and though he felt it as a voyeur would he (so away from the deed) it still felt like some scopophilic nightmare. Not really because it was Waylon — well, he hadn't really been with guys; it was more than the Walrider looked so content and felt so natural. Like it was made to borne these kind of responsibilities too. Like some extended penile arm it was meant to jerk you off. Nah, it sounded pretty like some mutation of some perverted wet dream. Preferred the basics. Fortunately, at this moment, Miles was not aware that Waylon had begun pleasuring himself when the Walrider gate-crashed.

As a faithful symbiotic it came crawling back to his skin, flesh and bones, cooing with a slightly less volatile pattern as the Morphogenic engine. The Walrider's satisfaction annoyed Miles. "Don't do that." Miles made the much need effort to reign in his phantasm.

"What, leave without permission?" The Walrider laughed softly.

"You know what I mean." Miles was gaining some authoritarian index in his voice.

"You can't stop me from tending to his little sexualities…so pretty…so pretty when he came…arghhh…so fucking hot…"

"You sure have a nice mouth for a skeletal, ghost-blot, freak of nature." Miles snapped, "Just leave him alone."

"You should sleep." The Walrider had his attention elsewhere.

Miles was too tired to argue.

Back at the bathtub, Waylon thought he saw an interested eye look at near the window, but then it disappeared as Waylon reacted by getting more upright. I need to sleep more.

Waylon wrapped a robe around him and just slipped into his boxers as he crashed once more next to Miles.

* * *

The room was so cold. It was not pleasant. Well, it felt a bit numbing.

"Fuck me, fuck…" Jeremy Blaire got up a bit vehemently and looked at his surroundings a bit clearly, then understood he was in an ICU and that all of him hurt like a bitch. He didn't care or need to know where in the hell on Earth was he because doctors in lab coats and MPs had a wiggling memory of status and satiation. Yet, he hurt like a bitch.

The room was frigid. The antiseptic plague plagued it. There was no cracks, no collections of dust or cobwebs. The word "clean" here had undergone both a Botox surgery and a cyborg augmentation. The smell of plastics and metals cascading into a well-oiled machine that twittered and creaked with the nodes of allopathic medicines and catalysed chemicals. The room was white with some spot of grey; the usual tableaux rasathat institutionalised science has incorporated into its artillery of "characteristics" — the contradictions were evident because most people came here with something already with them. White walls were the common denominator that allowed things to be collected as in spurts of blood vividly across its belly of paint. The ICU he was in was top notch: with him were other executives, only a handful of soldiers and other doctors. One exec started screaming that a Frank with eat him at a lunch conference — poor man had to be sedated.

Jeremy realised that he was the only person in the room who pretty much was superficially and anatomically correct.

The other guys lacked appendages, some were de-limbed, and others looked not really there as attendants re-bandaged lose chucks of missing flesh. Jeremy hurt but he was still a tin man with much tin in him so to speak.

"Jeremy, all the bones in your body are broken." Wernicke's German-accented English was something he recollected easily, "The good news is that Murkoff and its sibling companies do use enhanced medicines to ease the pain so to speak; you have been given a derivative of morpheme that helps you stay a bit more coherent that actual morpheme comprises too much. And you are given a serum, a bit of a wonder drug, that allows the body to heal faster. This is A grade treatment. Even if you had failed your mission you did fight admirably."

"Your boy Billy Hope almost killed me." Jeremy spat.

"No, it was Miles Upshur. Let's say the 'lateral ascension' of the Walrider went to 'contralateral ascension': though this has never really happened in a short amount of time. Billy Hope is pretty much dead. The Walrider, XY6, has expertly, I might add, decided to choose a more robust and pliable body-type and individual, so to speak."

"'Pretty much dead' is yo-yoing right?" Jeremy groaned. In his sort of drowsy state he remembered who Miles Upshur was. The security guards with him did indicate that a freelance investigative journalist was hounding the place. And he had researched on him after Waylon had sent the tip. The resume was impressive. Impressive enough for Jeremy to prolong his stay at Mount Massive that day because he thought his wits and smarts were needed to sucker punch the lights out of this expected yet buoyant nemesis of his corporate allegiance.

Wernicke pointed at the end of this white capsule cell of a room and Jeremy saw a bloodied bed, the body was broken and subject to lacerations. The eyes open but not really open. His name was a sham for Billy Hope was not at all a beacon to his namesake. "He is in a vegetative state. I am impressed he survived multiple shut downs of life support systems. I wonder if he just wants to see his mother. I guess he might die very soon. Children and their simple desires. It was that simplicity and the extension of it that made Billy a perfect host for a basic Walrider. At my calculations at that time was right: 'lateral ascension' happened faster than expected due to ancillary circumstances. Frank Manera was obviously a lost cause. You don't need a food disorder like some skinny model attempted to control a Walrider, I don't think it's possible for such a specimen of limited interests to patch up to the nanomachines. The Walrider understands a simple hunger expressed eloquently, complexly, loves the adrenaline torches of willpower. Cannibalism is hardly any of those things. Not surely Frank's with his babying 'Feed me' reprisals. Good thing I had the MP shoot him down and soon he was lovingly eaten by a group of totally hacked off inmates. You know how I am. Completing cycles and all." Wernicke's charm was as smooth and dripping, like the dexterity of IV lines, clearer and had that empowering sense of calm. Like his voice had mixed with some odd designs of scented candles. Jeremy appreciated thinly for his body was numbed and his own faculties were aching.

"You are lucky you are on my good side Jeremy." Wernicke's softness did not conceal his frustrations of the failures at Mount Massive and an annoyance geared at almost all personnel. The patience he wore now was a bit slimmer and in its narrow-eyed cul de sac wasn't about to let anyone get away so easily. Jeremy thought this both as a compliment and a disaster. "Let's say the ones who are too irritating had to be in a less grade housing arrangement. But Jeremy, for your information, Waylon Park has escaped with Miles Upshur."

Hearing Waylon's name made Jeremy sit up fast. The contraction of muscles hit him hard as though the Walrider did; muscle memory and all getting him to spit out blood and yelp a bit. Wernicke gave a small smile. Jeremy rasped, "Waylon made it out?"

"Most adequately yes." Wernicke's face and smile brightened, "That boy is amazing. Truly, a creature of endurance and also something so whollydifferent. I am so happy he played truant. I wouldn't then have not been able to strap him so successfully into the Morphogenic engine."

Jeremy almost said something, opened his mouth, then closed it, reassessed his words, got the feel of the intonation and polity of them in his tongue, whilst he launched the loaded: "Something tells me you are a bit unhappy that I partially postponed his exposure to the engine."

That is when Wernicke smiled.

— And slapped him hard against the face.

For an old bat he did know how to hit. And given the incapacitated state of Jeremy Blaire he could only sarcastically think one thing: Well, that slap imitated the Morphogenic engine's ethos to a T — exacerbate an already uniform pattern of insanity or in this case, make a pre-existing bruise have a smarting sort of approach.

"Now, that we got that out of the way…" Wernicke breathed heavily, his emaciated form did not hide the inflation and constrictions of his lungs, lungs ferociously breathing. A good set of lungs is a good thing to have after a certain age: helps if you are passionate. "You shouldn't let attractions stop the good work. Not in that fashion. You know trigonometry?"

"Yeah." Jeremy nodded in conformation.

"The beauty of trigonometry is that it allows spatial depth to what we see as the two dimensional geometry; it allows a malleability of angles and degrees from many directions. Think with the trigonometry of lust not with the populist trope of the geometry of marginal returns. Get that through your Ivy League Business School skull." Wernicke talked about math as though she was to know the rites of seduction but ending with the rasping tones of an assault when he was indicated. This way of speaking was analogous to domestic violence. Jeremy realised the Wernicke manifested the Patriarch card pretty efficiently.

"Yes, Dad…" Jeremy intonated which earned him another smack — to a smaller degree.

"No one can call me that except Stockblitz. My pure son." Wernicke said.

"I did not procrastinate in executing Waylon's punishment." Jeremy offered his truths, his mentality, "In fact, I was so annoyed by Waylon, that in the heat of the moment I did dispense to him a worse punishment than execution. I made him a subject for the engine. I did so because I was disappointed. I thought Waylon would be timid. Yes, I knew he was a sympathetic fuck but I was hoping that any bravado he tried would be done later. Waylon acted on his moral impulses too immediately. Getting sloppy while doing it. But, I hated that he was apt in his convictions. Maybe, in my eye before, I saw a more passive man and I could not easily connect these two oppositional forces perpendicular to each other. The need to be calm but also so furiously assertive. But after I got hold of my own senses, my anger waning, I realised that I put Waylon in a shit position. So, I told doctors to sedate him. Hoping that when he does come through the Morphogenic engine's initial non-lethal influences would scare him enough to keep quiet. But, Billy Hope being the brat he is ruined that plan. I wanted Waylon to come to me. I wanted him to want me. But Waylon didn't care…." Jeremy looked annoyed, "Why I don't understand. I am a successful guy…" Wernicke looked at a rare moment, Jeremy Blair explicitly showing a fear, an anger on lust or admiration not requited, "I thought a person like Park would want me…"

"Yes." Wernicke responded bittersweet, "I thought that once too."

Jeremy looked confusedly and Wernicke just smiled, "You know I had my affections rejected by a man with a more reserved nature than Park. Turing did not like me as much and I was jealous because he could love a woman or other men with more tenderness. I wondered. Did my beauty think of me only as a former Nazi? But before I could confess more my love, my "crush" as you young ones say, died. Died with a lot of happiness and acceptance. Maybe, you can show Waylon any of your winning qualities or redeeming ones?" Wernicke chuckled with no ill-feelings, "You see Waylon is a man who deserves whatever you have left of an idyllic humanity."

"I bought him coffee once." Jeremy smiled, with a bright smirk, purely admirable, "You should have seen it. The cute way he drank the coffee." Jeremy reminisced, his heart, or an organ figuratively close, pumped nice loose but comfortable excerpts of affection, "That tongue, that face, those cheeks. So aquiline, so masculine, yet so soft and so palpably aesthetical. Seeing him made me think of statues but also Galatea. I was amazed. I rarely had the feeling. I was smitten. It annoyed me because he was just a small-fry programmer. But it was so delicious. I felt I could hold his hand and squeeze it. Feel the density of his knuckles. I hardly get that feeling with anyone."

"Waylon Park…" Wernicke looked contemplative, "Has wonderful hands; the kind that make people of trees and rainforests. That man has exquisite bone structure."

Jeremy smiled. Such a rapport on male aesthetics with his boss. Kind of too casual — but fuck it. Waylon was the sort of hard on that needed to be appreciated. His boss understood that pretty much Waylon's body scale was poetry in motion. Jeremy knew all the other guys who have had erections over Waylon Park (including the sexual sadomasochistic sleezeball Andrew Lanes) would think of him as a quickie or a freak-fuck. Jeremy did not think like that. Jeremy saw Waylon as someone who had something; it was partly definable as a moral compass and empathy but it was also this subtle will to try to do things. Various things.

Waylon was not a cog: but he could shift in and out of a cog-like mettle. This made Jeremy fascinated. Most people were boring. At least to him. Waylon had this thing that could only be surmised as dynamic and understanding of complex notions. Jeremy had not figured a math nerd to be like that. He had associated with many different types of programmer nerds. They were dextrous but pretty logocentric. They had statistics but they had pretty much limited desires and drives. As he saw them. Waylon's freelance status made him appear, somewhat rightly so, sloppy and clumsy, a bit rough around the edges. But decoding him did not require the jargons of a mathematician. Waylon was rough probability: a man who played with many variables. This nature was something he liked. It showed. Jeremy observed that Waylon loved coffee mugs, coffee, tea but his tongue burned differently, even if the mistake was a repetition, and that he sometimes scribbled notes in a poetic hand (yes, he secretly read some, yup, he invaded the privacy of Waylon Park).

These little titbits showed character and characteristics that were somewhere between high culture and mass culture. Or at times at extremes. Jeremy loved the roles and regulations of a white collar participant. As an elite he enjoyed making laws and breaking them. Loved golfing and one night stands in high-end parties. He had come from privilege and was bred in privilege. And at times he did use his elitism in the bar rooms downtown and the so-called ghettos. There, mixing up stranglers and ruffians — as he positioned them — and getting cheap trashy dates (as he saw them) was kinda entertaining. Waylon was a bit of a rogue. But not really an intruder. Just someone who made sense in a totally different tandem. Personally, he could see Waylon as his meticulous person assistant/programmer helping him do things. Something about total white collar thing would not suit Waylon as he was too — uh, the words would be: atypically flexible, typically ethical — meaning he had none of the qualities to uphold that kind of tradition. Waylon had drive but he was not so aggressive and ruthless to know power as his bitch. While Jeremy know ambitiousness with industriousness Waylon knew how to have passion with a sense of amorphous innocence in places and the attachment of metaphysical threads.

Surprisingly, Jeremy was attracted to a person who should be the antitheses to all that he did and carried.

"It is okay to want him." Wernicke and he had been thinking about these things; in their own heads, that was made clear by the sync of the matter, "We may be attracted to the bad boy but truthfully there is also a raw, and base something irresistible about 'good' as we encounter it." Wernicke then added, "I think it has endurable, indefatigable qualities on it. They have this classical appeal but also at times have a rakish exuberance on them." Then he added more, "Ironically, despite superficial tougher skin, Miles Upshur also possesses these qualities."

Jeremy got annoyed at the mentioning of the guy's name. "That bastard."

"Well, get better Jeremy Blaire. We need to hunt down Waylon Park and Miles Upshur."

Jeremy looked at his damages: "Can I fucking punch Upshur a bit? Because I know torture and death is out of the question."

"Surely." Wernicke chuckled.

* * *

The car was comfortable enough to sleep in. Stole it from outside; the keys were inside so he wasn't complaining.

There was no complaints. But he shivered. His eyes were hurting. The engine screamed in his head.

Without the right antibiotics he scourged up from the labs he would be dead. But he was upset that the person he thought it okay not to kill him once and for all was a man he had wanted to kill. Eddie Gluskin knew that Waylon Park was annoyed by him. Hated him a bit too. Well, you were taking out his dick so…

Eddie had saw that Waylon had left with the dark thing, now in a man, with a red jeep.

And he had made his mission to follow him. Eddie wasn't sure if he wanted to kill him or punish him. Because Waylon helping him get impaled was helping him out of this lucid sort of hangover that was influenced by the machine. Whilst in that hangover state Eddie was able to reorganize his passions and remember so many things he wanted. Now, Waylon fucking ruined it. He was reminded that Waylon and all them sluts were men and that made him mad. 'Cause that time ignorance was bliss. Waylon ruined his dream or rather…ruined him for him.

In anger he punched the car's underbelly of carpet and plastic. All he wanted was a family. All he wanted was to fuck and breed and be a dad. Waylon made him feel as though he couldn't do those things. Eddie didn't know exactly know why but unlike the other people Waylon had mouthed: "You just wanna make women to kill them…you sick fuck…you ain't a dad you are just a poser…"

No one has ever really said that. Then Waylon had also mouthed: "You look for stupid things; you are the ugly one who has given up…you haven't even kissed anyone properly have you!?"

It was while he was hoisting him up that filthy, bloodied, grime filled bizarre gymnasium (that now seriously looked like some perverted hangman game) that Waylon, before he felt the tightening of the ropes, screamed out those words.

"Darling behave!" Eddie remembers screaming in absolute frustration as Waylon kicked and flung his body, to and fro, in the air, gnawing on his frustrations. Waylon was not passive, nor was he like him, filled with animosity. Waylon was determined. Unlike the scared patients and cocky administration Waylon was the odd one out.

But then of course, he had been impaled, coughed out his coppery fluids and touched Waylon's hand. "We could have been beautiful." A part of him meant it. But in that moment a sort of previously existing coherence pounding on his head. That Waylon, his darling, whose name he had seen in a file somewhere, was a man. But for some reason he didn't mind as much. But he was a bit disgusted.

Men were not, well, comfortable. They were rivals. Right?

Eddie recollected his last therapist, a man coughing and looking condescendingly at him. The dirty blonde man had whispered to an older looking colleague: "That one is full of shit. Says he can listen to the Walrider. Fuck me, I bet he is lying. We can take him to the engine. He's psycho enough for it. Bloody fuck also is a misandrist with the misogynistic tendencies."

"Wouldn't that make him misanthropic?" The colleague questioned dryly.

"Nah, misanthropy is more philosophical. This guy is a dumb backwater piece of shit. Won't understand that"

What was front-water anyway? Eddie had, miserably, thought. To an extent he felt ashamed. Unlike these professionals he had neither education nor status. Eddie came from a small town. Average working class family. Eddie knew all the trades that required physical effort. And sewing things. Eddie knew that he had no financial talent for universities or colleges. Didn't know if she should enrol in community college. Oh yes, that and well, his mother had told him to get married. Have a family. She had introduced him to a friend's daughter. Eddie had fucked her. Not make love, fucked. The girl went home crying and his mother's friend and his mother were in an awful fight. Eddie did not understand what had happened. Didn't understand what he did wrong.

Because that is the same way his father and uncle had done him.

After he reached seventeen his father had stopped. His uncle hadn't. His uncle was pretty much into him. When Eddie refused to want to have sex his uncle well, he couldn't say "no" and when he moaned out of pleasure his uncle called him a slut, a whore, and got harder on him. Making him bleed, bruise and silently have tears down his face.

Then Eddie left one day and never returned. Sent money to his mother. Got work in all the menial places. Eddie had no aspirations. Except marrying. Eddie didn't know what else to want. As a child he played with a group. As a teenager he did pranks and vandalism with a gang but no real friends ever. When boys and young men his age made sexual jokes he laughed a bit even to inappropriate ones a bit nervously. The gay ones too though all these things made him feel like an outsider.

Eddie started to hate women. Because it was women who were usually "sluts and whores" right? And because of them…well, they gave birth and did that mean they were horrible? Wonderful? Amazing? — He was terrified of their biological power. Terrified that they fucked and gave birth. Eddie sobbed as he was confused: he was fucked but why didn't he get pregnant. What was he? Surely, wasn't he a man?

Eddie had never really kissed anyone.

It was him who was forcefully kissed, by his father and uncle.

Kissing was also done by his mother.

Kissing was well, he didn't understand it.

He didn't also understand sex. The violence in it.

That is when he thought sex needed a meaning.

Sex was for his children — yes, that was meaningful.

All this time Eddie never enjoyed sex. He also didn't know what lovemaking really was. All he knew was charmer's tricks and empty promises and words. When he did kiss it was not really something he knew. And it was seldom done.

Waylon screaming at him. Telling him he didn't understand. What did he mean by kissing proper? What was that trick?

Waylon made him mad.

Waylon knew things he didn't know.

But Waylon looked like a darling. Not really a slut. What was he?

Eddie touched his lips.

Should he ask him to teach him how to kiss proper?

* * *

"They are following us?"

It was warning. Blood felt warm in him and Miles got up to see Waylon deeply asleep; but fresh? Oh yes, the bath…

Who is following?

"Those two. The ones that look alike."

Fuck, Miles realised it.

"They had noticed Waylon taking a bath. They are just outside."

Miles snarled and his Walrider made a hissing noise.

The air outside was cool and still. Rustling was being heard. Miles understood. "We can't leave Waylon alone…"

"You want me to attack them?"

"Better surprise them…with —"

Miles was unable to finish as he heard a soft knock on his door.

Miles's Walrider aura grew bright. He approached the door and saw them look at him. The Walrider's energy surprised them. They understood that Miles would attack and could harm them.

"We don't mean to intrude but it is quite awful outside. A bit too cold. We only wish to stay for a while. Miles Upshur, you have done incredible things. Let us join you. We can come to some use."

"Yes, uses."

"So many."

The Twins, first spoke the one with hair then the other, looked pretty happy seeing Miles.

"Should we trust them?"

I don't want to fight so much, Miles let them in but pointed to a corner.

The Twins looked at Waylon but did not show any vitriolic feelings towards the sleeping man and sat in their appointed place.

After a while, they snored softly and Miles and his Walrider grew a bit more stable.

Miles also had another realisation.

His Walrider pretty much listened to him and discussed things with him.

That was a very good sign.

"If they cause trouble I will rid them of their tongues and liver." Walrider laughed quietly and Miles had to smile.

"Look, Waylon may not be comfortable with this, rightly so." Miles told his shadowy ally, "I invited them in…" Then he continued in thought …because I want to keep a close eye on them…

"Good call…strong body…smart body…clever body…" Miles's Walrider gave him a tight hug. Miles felt a jolt. In his head, heart and spine. It was kinda painful but pretty electric.

Ok, easy boy…Miles coughed because the intensity of this was not expected.

"Oh…I am your boy now…mhmmm….so nice…"

The sultry way that was said made Miles feel slightly uncomfortable. But now was a good time to see what he could manage, I am gonna lie down and take a nap again, you monitor them

"As you wish…." Walrider stood in front of The Twins, "I am your regular Princess Bride huh…"

Miles laughed quietly too.

Seeing Waylon asleep was soothing.

Closing his eyes he hoped Waylon did not wake up before him.

The Twins would be kind of scary to wake up to.

* * *

Eddie did not go in. Nor did he do havoc. Inside the car he saw the red jeep and just decided to wait.

He was nervous. But to be honest he wanted a good enough plan.

Parts of him were also jealous.

Who was that man that Waylon was with?

Eddie did not know what he wanted.

Should he just go in and take Waylon and flee?

This was a pretty fucked up situation…

And something had to be done about it!

* * *

 **NOTES:** I must say something truthfully. Though I was inspired by Relina-Ru's drawings I myself am a POC. I don't live in States and so I was not aware that Park is a common Korean name. Also even before seeing Relina-Ru drawings of them I pictured Miles as a back brushed darker haired brunette. Some people saw him raven haired I did not. And I always saw Waylon as lighter brunette guy with silver eyes. People interpreted Lisa Park Asian too and I was thinking Waylon married an Asian person cool. I seriously did not know that Park is such a common Korean name. Yes I listen to K-pop and heard of Park Shin Hye but I do not know much about Korean names. This is my lack of knowledge. Yes, I was stupid. I liked Relina-Ru's interpretation of Waylon because he is slender, muscular has a cool face. And Outlast had many White characters. Most people drew Waylon as a white person and at times even his hands looked to me Caucasian but yes I saw anime type versions of him too but lesser. So, I am sorry for my ignorance. I hope I did not offend anyone. I have decided to make Waylon in this fiction a half Korean, half Welsh ancestry. Infact, I already thought of Lisa as half-Irish and half-Taiwanese or Japanese. I hope people will understand that I was just not knowledgeable enough before. I though Park was a normal American-European name as Parks.

I must say that I was really inspired by Relina-Ru's drawings of Outlast. And before she did the Waylon/Blaire thing I really didn't see potential in it. Well, Relina-Ru's way of representing the characters is partly how I am looking at them. Yeah, I also made Jeremy a bit more likeable. Eddie has our sympathy and all 'cause he is fiction: real life serial killers are not forgivable or stuff =/ Me and my pal talked a bit on Eddie's psychology so that was in this fic. As this fic has multiple pairings you can say I pretty much am giving both Miles and Eddie equal chances to be well with Waylon. Kinda nice to see who Waylon will pick :D maybe Miles, I really love Eddie/Waylon but I also love Miles/Waylon someone should write more Miles/Waylon. But yeah let's see how Waylon chooses :) Both Eddie and Miles have some downers. Well Miles is still a stranger and Eddie making a bad impression will be an understatement O_O so it will be fun to see how they interact with Waylon and how Waylon interacts with them. Oh yeah don't worry some stuff will happen with Jeremy and Waylon too. And there will be OCs. Maybe some Daryl/Miles/Waylon sort of things XD Speaking of Daryl and Slicestorm coming back in chapter 3 and you will meet XY9 and XY3 :) And of course next chapter will have some story developments too. Waylon is gonna be a bit unhappy with anonymity as he is pretty much normal exposure guy. Miles will be a bit more okay as loner type. But his Walrider is still not stable? A berserk Walrider anyone? Or, a Walrider that also unknowingly hurts Miles? Ideas, ideas, ideas :)


	3. Way-Links

**Chapter Summary:** In which Waylon finds himself more confused about who and what he is and the Walrider rides on the friendly-train to make his new BFF

* * *

 **Way-Links**

Waylon almost screamed awake. His breath hoarse; rapidly moving chest and the sensation of a throat gone wild but dry. It wasn't a nightmare. Or, was it? He was running through the hallways. The dreary, dark, stinking hallways that reminded him of doom. The bloodthirsty walls, the cannibalistic tremor of itself, it was like an anatomical mutation of endocytosis — an implosion, an eaten of oneself. A self that could only be some disgusting ouroboros.

Yes, it was Mount Massive Asylum. One of Murkoff's bitches that aided in the genetic and psychological betrayal of humanity. Or more specifically mankind in its last hours as the slow rape of the locks were clearly no maiden fair. Then there was figure; bellowing and larger than most things. Oh yes, Chris Walker — wasn't that the name of this person?

Yet Chris's stomach imploded as his intestines cracked and throbbed, and become multiple sharp tentacles and appendages. His already caustic grin gnawed deeper into the flesh and became sharper daggers of teeth. And then, obviously, Waylon was chased. Waylon moved slow as he saw that — yup, his leg was now sporting dangling veins — a more deeper abomination of a wound than he had still painfully carried.

And then Chris was stopped. By the dark spilling octopus or Megaladon like brute: the Walrider. Well, even though smaller and anthropomorphic in nature the instinctual level matched the terrors of the deep.

Something felt wrong.

Waylon did not feel relieved.

Rather he felt more scared as the Walrider grabbed him and as he struggled he felt something primeval, evil, but not exactly directly directed against him…it was like a loss of understanding…Then the Walrider morphed into Miles, with the dark, cloudy eyes. A static of storm, a forever gloom in his cranial ionosphere. And a smile, one third sadistic, part hungry but full glee. And Miles licks his face and mutters in the raspy, metallic voice of something preternatural and losing control: "Only should be you and me."

The dream was scary and he realises that Miles is pretty much in a fuck of a situation. Yes, he knew that before. One does not escape Mount Massive Asylum with a Walrider in between the bones and marrow of his ally without knowing that. But, he is admiring Miles Upshur. The way he is housing the Walrider. Without any violent incident. Sure a mathematician should trust statistical facts and the experience of variables. But they all are some sluts now aren't they?

Waylon laughed softly. He was mouthing like the bitchy way Eddie Gluskin talked when he talked. What he meant was that though he knew nothing about Walrider mechanics he could see that this one case was enough for a cursory summary: the Walrider fucks ups easily when angry at a bearing of 360° (yeah, that should be a bit imaginary and almost wrong calculations as bearing as pieces of the pie not the pie itself generally) and the Walrider's host does determine some of the Walrider's actions. The Walrider usually is angry and violent because it is born and borne by negative or really overwhelming impulses.

Miles must truly be, to many extents, a well-grounded individual. Waylon admitted to himself admiring again. But I cannot help Miles if he has no incentive to help himself.

Waylon took the entropy, lesser than zero values, that was not even an (-9) value. The entropy was this: his knowledge on the matters presented were limited as a carcass already excavated for even the healthy colour and calcium of its bones. He did not know how to help Miles Upshur rather than give some emotional and psychological support. Any other trauma faced even within the peripheries of the psychological and emotional cannot fully be registered by him.

Frankly, he wasn't sure what Miles even thought or knew about his new condition. And Waylon's earlier indiscretions experienced at the bath also scared him. Waylon would not easily abandon Miles but he didn't know how to help. Yes, he handled the programming schematics of the Morphogenic engine and abled the MRI to lock into bodies but it was all. The visuo-spatial translations were done via the psychologists and other programmers. Now, he was only exposed to the nascent stages of that procedure. The details of this phantasm, this blood-bound poltergeist with some mechanism of zeitgeist philosophy into it with gestalt monitoring was all superficially understood by him.

I don't know what the Walrider was made for, Waylon mused, Was it just a fascination with the moral and ethical pollution of man and use the dugout fossils of that world as a fuel? Was there any median or antithesis…any control to this project?

The word "control" hit Waylon on the spot. Control…most experiments have a "control" as a way to bifurcate or even add or lower pressures…what is the "control" for the Walrider. Is there any?

Waylon had been lying down all this time. The feel of the clean, smooth bed was too much to escape from and the steady breathing of Miles next to him was also a reassurance of many safeties. Miles breathing like a beautiful twirl in a time assured and assuaged Waylon of his humanity. Both of theirs to be specific and truthful.

Waylon did not wish to hurt or kill Miles. There was almost a weeping when he thought what if it ever boiled down to it. Outside, there was no light. It was around close to 4am. The mountain air a bit warmer now but still cool with a crispy freshness. Musk of all things in good order, good chaos, and rich in balance; teeming with a cerebral functioning that counted close the crescendo of heartbeats — Nature was quixotic and beautiful; her darkness was not a matter of pollution. It was just a change in scales of skin, another plumage. Nothing diseased nor cancerous.

Nothing so surreptitiously fucked up as a Walrider in the biodiversity here. You couldn't count daemons and spirits even if you counted them on some imaginary or beliefs list because they were not mucking up the ambient creaks and caresses of night or of one Waylon Park and Miles Upshur.

That is when Waylon felt the other noise, circling with the white noise of the large ceiling fan. It was other snores that next to him. Waylon got up with a thudding lightning reflex. Just jolted and saw two large people in the corner of the room.

Waylon didn't scream.

Whatever he learned from his ordeal is that screaming is not a good way to strike a counterattack.

But then he saw the radius of a silhouette-radiation, The Walrider… It had been swirling around and saw him awake and went up to him, "Miles invited The Twins over. They had followed us after the suicide of Father Martin. Miles does not really trust them but he and you are in no condition at the moment to turn down some strong thugs saying they will help out any way possible." The Walrider then smiled sweetly, if its skeletal face could manage something like a grin of comfort, which bounced oppositely Waylon's blank face of consternation. "Do not worry Waylon. I have told Miles…pretty Miles….healthy Miles….yummy Miles…good body Miles…that The Twins I will kill…if they annoy…"

Waylon looked a bit incredulously at the Walrider. "Just don't suck my dick again." Waylon breathed out

"That, I apologize, I cannot really say 'no' to that as of now." Walrider looked earnestly at his annoyance, "You are a very interesting human. You okay? You look sad."

I cannot believe… Waylon wanted to burst out laughing, this phantom is asking him his feelings? "Don't hurt Miles." It came out from his mouth, before he could stop it, "Don't turn him to a rampaging lunatic like Billy, please." That trace of etiquette lingered in his tongue and throat. His chemical signature. No rudeness here. Always tongue washing cheek better than a soap could suffice. It angers him now that a politeness was extended so organically to this Other or whatever theoretically or factually it was, I don't want him to think I am weak.

"Humans so complicated. Billy use me more. I do not always kill for pleasure. Pleasure is also felt…Billy helped me feel…" Walrider actually looked offended and Waylon's empathy kicked in: despite the ghoulish genes of machine-puppetry the sadness in his voice was prominent.

I even assigned him a notable gender, Waylon softly laughed, Should I name him next? But then looked that the Walrider went a bit back. "Oh, I am not mocking you I am just…I am sorry…I do not want…I do not know what you are…and I don't want Miles to get hurt…and I just don't know…I am sorry…"

The Walrider instantly looked happy and came closer once more. " You so nice Waylon."

"But you did try to kill me." Waylon remembered his first crash course lesson in Walrider introductions. At that moment the fear harangued him more obscenely as the "doctor team" (the group of inmates who advised him to take it out on the doc's dead body as a form of therapy) picked apart a man. Unfortunately, Waylon was also facing disorientation. Running for his life cleared some of it up. Between all those disordered plastic and clean room laboratory modules was a stain that would clean you out before you filed it away as a case. A failed experiment. And that stain had been the Walrider. Made Kleenex jokes sound more horrifying than ever.

"Sorry, Waylon…" Walrider offered its earnest apology, "I did not mean for your demise. I have no discrimination against you. My purpose then, aligned with Billy's, was to kill anyone. I have killed few healthy people without much qualms. Truthfully, I think I was, Billy was too, afraid of you…"

Waylon made a sharp turn. Looked with a gaze that bombarded chagrin and unbelievable shock. "I do not know how you can be so afraid of a nerdy keyboard pusher as me…" Was the Walrider now also taking to rude jokes? That wasn't funny.

"Well, I do not wish to be rude, but…" Walrider came closer, "Waylon, you can talk to me."

"Why yes." Waylon raised a brow.

"Have it ever crossed your mind that you are one of the few people who can do that?"

The Schrodinger's cat was out of the bag. Waylon was shocked, "What?"

"Yes, Waylon. You talking to me is not the norm. It is not completely possible with anyone. Most people cannot hook up to me. Neither can many talk to me. Wernicke, the man who helped built the Morphogenic engine, cannot…speak…his words…to me…also become static…you speak clearer to me…at times more so than Miles."

What else will be revelation? This is pretty problematic; oh shit, this was kinda fucked up, alright…Waylon had not ever understood why he was able to speak clearly, so clearly, to the Walrider. After leaving Mount Massive hours ago he had presumed that it was because of Miles becoming the host that made it possible. Miles had obviously done no damage with the Walrider…as in did not cause mayhem yet as done in Mount Massive (well the Walrider did have help, the insane inmates). But, now, the matter pressed…

"Uhmm, you talked about fear?"

The Walrider looked at Waylon, "Yes, fear. You are very different."

"How so?"

"You may also be a little psychologically disturbed. Most modern man nurses a psychosis. But you have a faint, nice bioluminescence stuck to your aura like fireflies…a firefly…pretty butterfly…glowing, growing…I tried to touch you a bit harshly back there…in the place…and it almost hurt me…hurt me…and chased me away…" The Walrider's language, with its shifting pricks and levers of childish and cool scientific jargon like awareness, struck Waylon, not with fear, but with fascination. It was like seeing the Walrider in a recognizable light: as an artificial intelligence. A programming. This did not mean he could control the format of the coding. It just made an awful more sense to him. To him codes were poetic and poetry was pretty poignant. Phantasm-manifestations of the Walrider were more like black-holes to him: except it bended psychologies and flesh into something monstrous, not light, or rather light both chemical-wavelengths in a figurative membrane. Black holes looked like darkness in space; Waylon wondered as it nullified and fed off, as in denatured light, would it smoke red-hot as the sun in their atmosphere? The Walrider seemed like that. Its cloak a fine black panther's sprawl but it had more contrasted lines of bone accents on its body that made it move almost like water or muscle ripple. Not necessarily the way the shadows move.

Waylon surveyed the information; touched it palpably in his cortex. Grey matter alive and white matter assisting in keeping calm. Fear and me equals Walrider getting nervous. Not the math I thought I would plot in a function graph. Then Waylon remembered the note he scribbled to understand an inmate playing basketball with another's head. That was the reification, in short verse, of whatever happened in Mount Massive. Of people disjointing the brain, human brain, from empathy and feeling and treat it as a dish of scientific zombie leftovers. I am not a Luddite; but I am not technocrat either, Waylon roughly sighed, I am not gonna marvel at the expanse of science and relegate the need for human interactions and values. That's not me.

Waylon though suddenly about his dad and mom. It was funny, he hadn't thought of his father in a while. Waylon was around twenty-four when he died. And Lisa had already given birth to the sons. By then he was already a father himself. Waylon had married early. He was round twenty or twenty-one when he did. He was in love and thought it was great to marry his classmate Lisa Hanlon. Lisa was a quarter Irish, quarter Taiwanese and Japanese as her father was Irish and mom Taiwanese-Japanese. Hyuan Jason Hanlon-Park and Chioh Oscar Hanlon-Park respectively were like a year apart from each other. After that they just did stuffs that families did. Well, frankly, he and Lisa were becoming farther apart. Lisa did a PhD: Waylon was doing part-time Masters in Mathematics and Programming by the time she was mid-way finished. It wasn't really the pressures of being a father. Waylon was a bit more disoriented than Lisa about things he studied and worked at. Unlike Lisa, who was methodical and had high bouts of professionalism, Waylon was more like a bohemian meeting a library geek crossways in some odd psychological crosshairs.

Waylon thought of his father, a Korean-American man, and of also his Welsh ancestry that came from his maternal grandfather. I don't think genetic-hybridity has much to do with Walrider fears but I will keep some of these things in mind just in case…

Thinking of Lisa made him unhappy. Whatever Lisa is going through now and his poor boys was because of him. And he regretted his actions. Not the exposure. No. That was a moral dilemma that had to be solved with the accurate: yes, these bastards need some royal whipping. But…he didn't want Lisa to be feeling abandoned. Nor his dear children. The word "children" automatically brought the unpleasant memory of Eddie Gluskin: Bear this, bear that, warm seed for children, sake of children…Yup, that guy can really talk a lot about nonexistent children. Personally, the idea of him, as he is now, being a father was nauseas. Because he would be have this coddling mentality that made him more of a burden to how own kids.

Thinking of his wife and children also reminded him of Blaire. That bastard Jeremy Blaire who was said he "personally" wanted to take care of the matter with Waylon and concerning Lisa Hanlon Park. What was Blaire's problem? Not only did he personally see to his incarceration but he also wanted Lisa to suffer all these odds. Is he a possessive fuck, what sort of sadist was he anyways? Waylon felt a feral anger to gut-punch Jeremy Blaire.

"What are you thinking about?" The Walrider, with all gentleness it could muster, put its clawed hand on Waylon's shoulder, "I did not mean to make you upset Waylon."

"No, No…I…" instinctively Waylon put his own hand on the Walrider's and there was a slight tinge-singe between them but then he felt a cool radiating sort of hum, as though the sun's heat was blowing on windmills. "I am just thinking about my family."

"Are they nice?" The Walrider asked curiously. The skeletal face tilted and the voice cooed a child's way of inquisition; that can be described as a wandering between rhetoric and true precocity.

"I wouldn't be thinking about them if they weren't would I?" Waylon smiled and laughed softly.

"Not really." Walrider said in a factual tone that made Waylon look pretty stunned, allowing him to continue, "Humans are strange you know. Billy's mother and he had always been at, the term is, loggerheads. They share an abusive history. Throughout his childhood life his mother 'beat the crap outta him' so to quote him in verbatim. She so awful….awful…" The eyes of the Walrider glowed and his aura manifested brighter and Waylon realised this was not a topic that should be worth perusal but before he could say something the Walrider calmed and continued, "But Billy yearned for her; she died via a cardiac arrest. Billy's church, or rather his mom's, told him so. Well, it was rather they informed and Billy via me got to know. No one was kind enough to tell Billy what he needed to know. May have been only twenty-three but Billy was no stupid at least not totally. After a while using me he accessed both computer and physical files and letters. It was when he found out that Billy finally truly had a lateral ascension. Well, it was not immediate, but it was within a 13 hour framework. I was still a lively blob of cells or rather a form of aether but after that well now you see me."

Walrider laughed quietly its laugh of metallic sobriety, not insane, coherent, dangerous yet playful, then seriously it came to the mean of the discussion, "Sorry, digressing, but Billy also abused his mother when he got older. The church had to intervene. Billy's mom was a reborn person. I do not understand birth or rebirth. To me people should not pupate so much or maybe I am just unaccustomed to such things. I do not know how people moult as my moulting is more, umm, graphic, is that a good word? Anyways, Billy was cleaning up his act. I know Billy was a bit of a sexual deviant and delinquent in his town who stole, broke property and also harassed people. He was also a notable abuser of the greengrocer of his town; apparently, he beat that man up twice and both times he visited the hospital. Anyways, even such a bad history, I think to Billy his mom made sense. She was an indelible routine, a pattern he understood. I mean, no one else put up with him as much as she or so he thought. Billy really cared about his mom. They just were pretty fucked up."

Waylon found it hard not to laugh a bit more loudly. Having such a focused and philosophical conversation with a nanomachines' powered phantom was right out some science fiction novel but he was pleased that the conversation was good, easy, something the tongue enjoyed to move around. That there was a conversation. A good rapport; him being able to talk to Walrider and Walrider him. The room's pleasant coolness with this conversation (all he needed was tea) made him feel alive. Rejuvenated. After the sleep and the dream that no longer proved to be an incubus. The Walrider's carefulness and caring actual made him seem at comfort. Their companionable synchronisation made him still a bit uneasy as he shouldbe a potential host. But the Walrider had not…

"I could have tried entering your consciousness and your body but I **cannot** actually…" The Walrider was in sync, "It makes me annoyed but not irate enough to hurt you rather I am more than eager to explore this possibility with you, side by side, or sideways, this is another type of ascension…I do not know but I feel it in the cluster of synthetic-synapses I carry…I am sure this is something new and beautiful. Waylon, you are so cool. Cooler than me. I envy you."

Waylon momentarily felt amazed at the compliment of their complimentary yet discrete, independent existences. Then immediately followed, "You can't enter me, did you try? I mean when I was sleeping?"

"I did a bit…" Waylon's irritation made him then say, "Sue me, I was just testing the fences."

"Fences?"

"The bioluminescence. I was just born then. But your bioluminescence is not just born now. And it wasn't Billy's and mine's imaginations. You have an aura that I can't really bypass. Waylon Park, I think you psychologically, physiologically and genetically have an immunity towards me."

"Is that even possible?" Waylon was too flabbergasted. All these hours he is getting a Jetstream of new information. All these flotillas of microcosms of himself that he was never even aware of. And all of this bound also to the Walrider.

"I am not so skilled in knowing my own self but it seems so." Walrider actually shrugged its skeletal shoulders.

"Do you think this is a challenge?" Waylon cautiously eyed him. There was silence that filled in more. Became convex and concave with the human breathing of Waylon and the rippling, inky muscular anatomical vibrations of the Walrider. The Walrider's anatomy was anthropomorphic but it may not have lungs or rather a collective set of lungs or it did but was mostly assisted by other things. Waylon had earlier imagined it to be similar to earthworm "hearts" for the piston like generations on its outlines was akin to it. Yet the tension was really nuclear. This was a truth or dare, a catch-22 and was pre-cementing of sorts. If Waylon, though sceptic, trusted on the honesty of the Walrider then it would certainly say what it wants.

"No. Not truly. It is a bit but not so much because I like Miles and I like you. I can be different with both of you. I was not initially programmed to be a probability index in human interactions. Yet I bounded so entirely differently with Miles and my bond with him has not brought his body too much damage. But Billy's was starting to rot. I mean all those life-supports and stuff. But it does bother me. I am a creature made to look for good hosts to be symbiotic with. You are a more perfect host at times than Miles. Not that Miles is any less perfect…" The shadow smirked here, it was coquettish, it showed no animosity and its steel voice was nice and easy like a knife on butter, the silence of tension was skilfully eradicated into pieces to mix with this strange, gothic potpourri of conversations, "But, your aura is so unmanageable. At least I wanna know why…And if we can ever link up. If we do I have all the interests to ask for consent."

Waylon sighed with relief and a strange feeling went down that he realised was bile with fits of adrenalized anger. Waylon at times wanted to wash his hands, bones, skin and limbs off this Walrider. If it wasn't for this project he wouldn't have gotten fucked in psycho-ville and wouldn't have to be separated from his family. At the same time, Waylon could not help but appreciate the Walrider's sympathy, care and honesty. This was not so contradictory. It just felt that he was thrust into a greatness that he was not even large enough to contain. Waylon was a "small-fry" was he not? All his life he had felt the slaps of mediocrity. Only his love was a great one which he was thankful to God to for his family also made him enormously happy.

Yet, Waylon was not a person who had such high ambitions: at least not consistently so because all his life he was the marginal. Waylon did not think of himself as a prime number or a set of Fibonacci dialects that also voluminous armoured the philosophy of the golden ratio. Waylon thought to himself as a 2+2=4 kind of being: a simple truth which generated even numbers. A classic case of existence; in his own set theorem of reaches because 2+2=4 has a lot of mathematical interstices even with some differential properties but that was the thing. It is amazing but also pretty subtle. The numbers "2" and "4" were the basic consecutives so it made him of linear lifestyles and all the adjunct things associated with that. And the counter 2-2=0 was also a basic truth. There was nothing to really entropy as zero or cipher was the origin and also a chemical balance that is everyman's negation or starting point of things. It was classic, simple, compact. Like a haiku. These variables brought forth a dizzying subject-objectivity to reality that terraformed his planet's mathematical notations.

* * *

 **Notes:** I hope I am not discouraging anyone's reading. My chapter ideas are a bit too large. I am sorry I wanted Daryl in this chapter but I reached 4k and I realised this may be torture to some of my readers. Please tell me what you think. I want to know as this is really WIP. Thank you for the kudos I am so honoured. I really am. Also, I am not a maths buff or mathematician. If I say stupid things please forgive me. I hope you guys are enjoying the read so far :D thanks for reading and investing your valuable time

 **WARNING: Next chapter has graphic accounts of rape, child abuse and violence.**


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